


The Dour Detective

by 912luvjaxlean



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Boudoir, Established Relationship, F/M, Female Author, may 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/912luvjaxlean/pseuds/912luvjaxlean
Summary: Fact or fiction? Memoir or novel? Phryne presents her first born to Jack.





	The Dour Detective

“Be careful, Jack,” said Phryne Fisher as she handed her first born to her partner. “Not like that. Support it.”

“I am. It’s just bulky and heavy.”

“Don’t bend it!”

“How big is this?” asked Jack as he took possession of the unwieldy bundle.

“Just a few hundred pages or so.”

“Hand written? Well, I look forward to reading it in future.”

“No time like the present, Jack.”

“I was under the impression that when you stripped me down to my smalls you had something else in mind.”

 “I do. But, first you must read my wonderful book. Let me make you comfortable.” She propped him up with pillows, handed him his reading glasses, positioned the bedside lamp perfectly, and ran her hand down his body, circling his belly, and rubbing his manly package with an experienced and appreciative hand.

“Can’t I read this later?” asked Jack with longing in his voice and desire in his deep set, earnest, blue eyes

“No. Now.”

“Then why are you stroking me?”

“To encourage you to give me a favorable review. But, I’m sure you’re going to love it as much as I do. I value your input, dear Jack. I’ll just leave you to it and wait patiently over there.”

She lounged upon the settee in her boudoir. She sipped champagne and watched Jack read. She buffed her nails and watched Jack read. She hummed popular tunes and watched Jack read. She walked over to her vanity, brushed her hair and watched Jack read. She cold creamed her face and watched Jack read. She drank more champagne, paced, buffed, brushed and waited as patiently as a restless person can wait without seeming impatient.

“Stop fidgeting,” said Jack.

“I’m not. I’m completely relaxed and poised. Can’t you hurry up?”

“I’m reading as fast as I can.” Jack said as he turned over another page of the massive manuscript. Balancing the bulk of it on his knees, he read methodically placing the finished page face down on the mattress. His round tortoise shell spectacles slipped down his nose, his brow furrowed as he attempted to decipher her handwriting, his ‘can’t cope cowlick’ began to unfurl.  “What do you mean by a ‘can’t cope cowlick’ by the way? This detective of yours seems to be plagued with it.”

“Please read what it says to me.”

“Quote--His carefully controlled and pomaded auburn hair which was shiny and well-coiffed and smelled wonderfully when she was able to stand close to him on those rare occasions when he wasn’t so stubborn stand-offish and surly presented itself with his can’t cope cowlick. She would have to solve the case for him, thought the beautiful and brave, lady detective…” Jack squinted and brought the page close to his face, “Dora Donels --Unquote.”

“It’s Dara Daniels. Isn’t that a perfect name?”

“It’s nicely alliterative and suggests a daring woman. So, what does the name Squinty Samuels for your detective suggest?”

“Oh, I’m changing that.”

“That’s a relief,” he said and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

“I have several ideas for his name and I’d welcome your opinion. What about Gruff Gustafsson?”

“The growling Swede?”

“Freddy Furrow?”

“The plow boy?”

 “Percival Plodder? Stanley Stern? Austere Austin?” Phryne paced and called out names as Jack shook his head in the negative to each suggestion. “I have it! Lorenzo Leano.”

“Since you mention it, this fellow seems to always be leaning. Is he unable to stand in the vertical? He’s much too casual for a man in his profession.”

“My detective leans,” said Phryne.

“But, why?” asked Jack as he leaned against the headboard.

“Why?”

“Yes. You call him a solitary pillar of society. Where? In Pisa?”

“He leans because that’s how he approaches the world, his job, it’s his point of view.”

“Off kilter, inclined and bent? He leans not only on every page that he appears, but also on everything he finds. He is also frazzled, furrowed and not only unable to stand up straight, but solve a crime without the brilliant, and I quote…sorts through some pages…’the brilliant and bright and beautiful well-known international beauty and awesome adventuress and amazing aviatrix and fashionable and seductive and man pulling’…Phryne, are you sure you want to say that?”

“Oh! I meant that she is so attractively magnetic that she can have any man she wants.”

“She is a magnet and not a man puller, then?”

“Yes.”

“May I change that?’ Jack reached over, picked up a pencil from the bedside table, juggled pages, pushed his hair from his forehead and wrote. “Magnet. Got it.”

“What do you think, so far?” She stood on her tiptoes as though poised to pull his response from him.

“Well…”

“Be honest. I can take it. It’s only my life’s work you are holding in your hands, Jack.”

“And, on my knees, and on the bed beside me. It’s…”

“Yes? Yes?” She asked eagerly.

“Couldn’t we just leave this for later and make love?” Jack asked hopefully.

“Is that all you ever think about?”

“Since meeting you it is.” She looked at him with her bottom lip slightly pushed out, her hands on her hips, and her head tilted to one side, reminding him of a petulant puppy. He patted the mattress. She launched herself onto the bottom of the bed.

“Now, tell me what you think, so far.”

“It’s full of run-on sentences and repetition and misspellings. But, it’s your first draft, after all. You can rewrite and fix things.”

“What do you mean?” She looked at him as though he had suggested that she now turn into a blue fairy.

“You’ll go back through and improve it.”

“It’s fine the way it is, Jack.” She got up onto her knees and stared at him.

“Even Shakespeare re-wrote, Phryne.”

“I like it the way it is and if it needs something, you can fix that.”

“No thank you.”

“You won’t help me?”

“Perhaps you should get an editor to help you with it.”

“You can be my editor. I already have a publisher.”

“You do?” he said with surprise.

“I bought a publishing house. My book will be its first offering. Isn’t that exciting? And, you can be my editor.”

“I would rather not. I decline the honor. Respectfully. Thank you, but no, thank you.”

“You won’t help me?”

“And, now I can see that you’re deciding how to play it to get your way. Petulant, penitent, pushy or pulling.”

“Alliterative snark? That’s beneath you, Jack.”

“What should be beneath me is you. But instead I am trying to read…”

“Trying?”

“Attempting?” He suggested. She scowled at him. “Petulance, then? Very well. I’ll plow on while you take a vow of silence.” He went back to his slow infuriating pace.

She stretched out like a cat upon the foot of the bed. A sensuous feline with blue-green eyes, who was clad in cobalt blue pyjamas, and sported a sleek dark Lulu bob. Her toenails were polished in a color called Peachy Keen. She would now be quiet and let him read. (It was a pity that she was constitutionally unable to, however.) “Jack!”

“Now what?”

“Aren’t you finished yet.”

“If I say yes, will you believe me?”

“Where are you?”

“On your bed, about half way through a very long manuscript with unnumbered pages, cross outs, repetitions, and bad handwriting. And you?”

“Waiting here quietly ever patiently waiting. Have you noticed that the thin blue pinstripe on your new undies matches my lounge suit?”

“I did. Come over here and we’ll celebrate the match.”

 “That would be a distraction.”

“When have you ever turned down a pull?”

“Since the literary muse came to me.”

“So, it came and we won’t?”

“Not until you help me polish it.”

“To be honest, Phryne, it needs a bit more than a polish. More like a strong editorial hand with a hammer and chisel.”

“I am a neophyte writer as you well know. A virgin, in fact. Stop laughing. You have strong hands,” she crawled up to him and straddled his legs. “Fix it.”

“Can’t you find someone else?”

“To handle my first born? Where is your honor?”

“On the floor with my trousers? They are creasing even as we speak.”

“Perhaps I should name my detective Filip Fussy.” Phryne got off Jack. “There. Picked up. And folded.  Neatly. Satisfied?”

“Not yet. I’m cold. Can you cover me up?”

“Of course.” She took the fur blanket from the foot of the bed and covered his legs and torso with it and smoothed it down. “Now tell me.”

“May I have a glass of water?”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think these were delaying tactics.” She went off to get him a drink while he thought of what else he could do to delay the inevitable.

“Here now. Drink. Better? All warm and comfy. Pillows plumped.”

“So’s my willie.”

“He will have to be wait. Look. I will inspire your comments,” she removed the top of her dark blue pajamas.

“Truly inspiring. May I?” He reached out for her. She pulled back. "As you like," he said with resignation. "Perhaps I might ask the author a question or two for clarification?”

“Certainly. I’ll do my bust exercises while you question me.”

“Am I supposed to be able to concentrate while you do that?”

“We want them to remain firm and youthful, don’t we? Now, focus on the problem at hand, Jack Robinson.”

“Can you explain your lady detective’s influence on the Inspector?” He asked as he stared at her breasts.

“Of course. Her influence allows him to blossom like a wilted flower long deprived of rain. He is dried up and parched for the moisture of her solace and succor. She is like Spring upon the wintery landscape of his disillusioned and dour existence. She is charisma in a cloche. A tidal wave of passion, personality, and detecting skills. SHE is the lady detective.”

“I see. He seems unable to even feed himself.”

“Yes. The Au Gratin scene. She feeds him from a fork, enticing him to open his mouth and to take what she chooses to give him. I love that scene. Don’t you?”

“Well, he appears so easily led. Influenced by a hot meal while your heroine perches on his desk. She acts as though the corner of his desk belongs to her. Can you stop doing that?”

“What? This?” She flexed and contracted her chest.

“Yes. Please.”

“Oh, alright. I’ll do my stretches.” She stood up, skimmed her pajama bottoms down her lithe body and removed them. Underneath she had on a very small, very wispy, very see through, very flimsy pair of knickers, noticed Jack. “Do you like the color?” She posed and turned ever so slowly.

“What’s it called” Jack asked, licking his lips and swallowing.

“Perfectly Peach.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do. Now about my book.”

“Very well. The bird imagery you use?”

“I did that deliberately. I thought it fit with her being a flier. It was clever of me, wasn’t it?”

 “Quote--She was feathered perfection as she performed a fan dance, wearing an alluring pink costume that called to mind an exotic rare avian jewel, a diamond of the first water, taking flight in a bouquet burst of decadent delight and bubbly effervescence– Unquote.  Mixed metaphors confuse the reader, in my opinion.”

“I know what I mean, Jack.”

“Moving on. She’s in yet another costume. She seems to change her clothes every other page, sometimes within the same scene.”

“She not only has an extensive wardrobe, but the fashion sense to know what to wear in any given situation.”

“Three pages to describe her ensemble, in detail, when she apprehends the killer is part of the plot?”

“It is.”

“The Inspector with the many names wears the same boring suit throughout. And what about this? Quote--She was wearing an exquisite chinnyswear robe…”

“Chinoiserie.”

“That’s not how you spelt it. Are you aware that scowling creates wrinkles, Miss Fisher? But, I digress. Quote--robe given to her by an old friend, who will remain nameless, but will know who he is when he reads this—Unquote. Really?”

“Of course, he’ll know. You’re furrowing again, Freddy.”

“Said robe is described as, Quote-- being embroidered with an amazing stunning unique one of a kind stunning bird of prey like a stunning peacock – Unquote. A peacock is not a bird of prey.”

“This one is.”

“Peacocks and peahens, genus Pavo, are in the pheasant family.”

“MY heroine’s robe was given to HER by a young and handsome lover who told her this peacock was a bird of prey when he…”

“Preyed upon her? A rare bird, indeed. In any case, she is a femme fatale in feathered finery. And when the Inspector isn’t dyspeptic, he is helpless. Quote—He accepted the food from her hand like a starving chick or a baby bird, opening its wide mouth to its mother, hungry for love and affection, a needy little birdy quite alone in its lonely office nest—Unquote. My darling, you cannot be bloody serious.”

“My dearest. I bloody well am. She saw him that way.”

“How can she, just five minutes in town, know anything about him?”

“She IS the lady detective.”

“My arse,” mumbled Jack.

“Excuse me? Is it possible for you to be civilized?”

“My apologies. But, see here, Phryne. I read it as the newly fledged lady detective trying to coerce and bribe him to do her bidding by using food.”

“I meant that he looked like he could use a good meal and that…”

“He reminded her of a malnourished budgie?”

“You know very well that I didn’t write that. He looked lean and hungry. He had an attractive mouth that was continually compressed into a frowny line that aged him, but when he took what she offered from the fork he was quite attractive, able to smile and had fine…”

“Feathers?”

“Not feathers. Features. Learn to read.”

“Learn to spell.”

“I just want you to just tell me what you think about my novel.”

“And I am trying.”

“You are criticizing and berating it. You dog-faced dilettante.”

“Oh, that’s nice talk coming from a woman wearing nothing but pink knickers.”

“Peach. You are not only mean, you are color blind.”

“I am not.”

“Are, too.”

“Am not.  My God, Phryne!” He whipped off the blanket, scattering pages all about as he forcefully got out of bed. “I came over here for a night of bliss not this…this…debate about the merits of amateur writing.”

“Amateur!?” She confronted him with all the dignity that her semi-nude form could muster. Facing forward, feet planted firmly, hands on her hips, nipples perky because the room was cooling down.

 “Who would buy this…this...vanity project?” He stood before her and argued with emotive gesticulation.

“My old friends? My many, many old friends. And, do you know, Jack ROBIN-son that when you flap your hands like that you look very birdlike indeed. Is that the mating ritual of the twit when you stutter and flutter around like that?

“A harpy would know. I am leaving.”

“And not a minute too soon.”

“I demand that you hand me my trousers.”

“Demand?” She marched over to the wardrobe where she had placed the garment. Picked it up. Went to the open window and threw it out. “There. There are your trousers!”

“They had better be on the balcony is all I can say.” Jack stalked to the window and looked out. “No, of course not, they’re in the bushes. Is that any way to treat a new suit?”

 “Was that any way to treat my new novel?” Phryne flew to the bed and began gathering the pages of her tome together.

 Jack stumped over and started picking up papers. “Petulant Petunia should be her name, not Dora Donels,” he muttered.

“Dara Daniels! Dammit!” She waved the crumpling and creasing pages at him as though they were a sword mightier than the pen. “I insist that you hand me those pages.”

He wadded them up and threw them on the bed. “Here!”

“You are just jealous of my ability to openly and honestly convey the truth of what it means to be THE lady detective.” She said with pride in her voice, paper in her hands, and writerly passion.

“So that bit about commandeering the fire truck and…and.. singlehandedly setting up the ladder and climbing eight stories in a…a…couture gown and Louis heels to rescue the kittens from the burning building is TRUE?” Jack squawked and flapped his hands. Then, became aware of them and jammed them behind his back.

“Dramatic license. It shows her compassion.”

“Throwing a gentleman’s trousers out a window doesn’t strike me as compassionate, Miss Fisher. I’ll just call down on the house phone and ask Mr. Butler to retrieve them. Though, how I will explain this I don’t know.”

“Do you have money for that call, Inspector?”

“What? You’re going to charge me?”

“Yes.”

“My money is in my trousers, woman.”

“Too bloody bad, you man.”

"Shall we return to your magnum opus, then?” He strode to the settee and sat down heavily.

“Certainly.” She stalked after him with the attitude of vexed cat on the trail of a stupid pigeon. “Critique away.” She shoved wrinkled pages into his big fluttery hands.

 Jack looked at a random page. “You say that the Inspector has civilized manners.”

“I lied.”

“But could also be…”

“Pig-headed?”

“What does this say?” He showed her a page. She reluctantly came over and sat by him. “You scratched it out.”

“It says, quote-- A royal pain in the arse—unquote. I was miffed at you when I wrote that. Then, you were sweet to me. But, now, I will be sure to put it back in.”

Jack exhaled with a god-give-me-strength sigh. “And, what do mean by Quote-- I couldn’t live with him and I couldn’t hit him with an axe—Unquote.

“That is exactly what it means to know someone like you, Jack Robin—note bird imagery--son.”

“Well, this fellow you describe is stern, humorless, and so work oriented that he leaves the lady in the middle of quiet interludes because he prefers writing reports to making love. He’s a bit of a pill, actually.”

“And, based on someone we both know.”

“He’s also incompetent and completely unable to solve anything without Dora.”

“Dara!”

“He’s always swallowing hard when she’s around. Or, tearing up and wilting with unbearableness and unrequited passion. Or, leaning on any immovable object he can find. And, what do you mean by ‘eye sex’?”

“You would never understand. Cold. Heartless. Literary critic that you are. Give me my child, Jack.”

“Get me my trousers, Phryne.”

“Never.”

“A stalemate, is it?”

“The end of everything, in fact.”

“I am very sorry to hear that.”

“It can be no other way. You…Stop reading that.”

“I just want to ask you one more question. In this scene.” He put his arm around her.

“Where?” She leaned into him.

“Right here. In this scene, they are in a closet with a picnic basket. Is that symbolic of their closeted love or do they have a food fetish that must be performed privately? And, how does one eat cottage pie without a fork?”

“You must use your mouth and fingers.”

“To make up for my literary cruelty?” He slid off the settee and knelt to her. “That’s a perfectly peach confection that you are offering me, Miss Danels.” He took off his glasses, placed them under the couch and helped her slip the knickers down.

“What about my novel?”

“We’ll work on it. Do you have a title yet?” He parted her knees with his shoulders.

“My Lustful Adventures with The Dour Detective?” She opened her legs to him.

He looked up winsomely from between her thighs. “Please try not to smother me, Dara.”

“No promises. Robin.” Then, she grabbed him by his thick auburn hair and pulled his face into her, shall we say, delicate lady detective parts.


End file.
